#juni

Morning is- usually- your favorite time of day.

You're usually the one with a pep in your step, eager to seize the day, chatting Frank's ears off as he sips his coffee, determined to give you all his attention while actively pretending he barely got any sleep. But today ? Today your body feels like it's already given up before your mind even had any time to wake up. You know that the second you get out of bed, you'll have to go to work. And going to work means seeing stupid Louis and his shit-eating grin whenever you mess up. The way he wiggles his eyebrows and the way he whispers how much you suck under his breath as Landman prioritises him over you when giving out cases because he's a man.

I mean, you went to law school- you've always been considered less than because you're a woman- and that's never bothered you before because you've always just been focused on your own goals to care about what people think about you. But Louis just... gets to you.

It seems waking up today is harder than anything else, especially when the huge man next to you is pretending to be a weighted blanket.

Frank’s arm is thrown over your waist like a steel beam, heavy and warm, his face buried into the back of your neck. You squint at the dim light peeking through the curtains and groan quietly.

“Frank.” A sleepy hum vibrates against your skin. “You’re crushing me.”

“No m’not,” he mumbles immediately, voice rough with sleep. “You’re dramatic in the mornings.” You pry one eye open.

“I will bite you.” That finally gets a laugh out of him. Low. Annoyingly amused. Instead of moving, he tightens his grip.

"Don't tease me with a good time." He rumbles, pulling you tighter against him, his lips trailing over your neck. You shiver, closing your eyes.

Usually that would’ve been enough to melt you completely. Usually Frank only had to kiss your neck once before you were rolling over with a grin, already halfway through some rambling story about a dream you had or a case you read three weeks ago that suddenly reminded you of something else entirely Usually the mornings belonged to you You were the noise in the apartment. The constant motion. The chatter bouncing from topic to topic while Frank blinked awake slowly beside you, pretending he wasn’t listening to every word.

But today your body feels heavy.

Still. Wrong.

Frank notices almost immediately.

His lips pause against your neck.

“Baby? You crack one eye open.

“Don’t start.”

“…Start what?”

“Talking.” A beat of silence. Then,

“That’s usually your thing.”

“I’m on strike.” He huffs out a laugh against your skin, but it softens quickly when you don’t react much. You finally wriggle enough to escape his grip, immediately missing the warmth but too irritated to admit it. The second your feet hit the floor, reality crashes back into you.

Work.

Louis.

Landman.

The stupid office.

Your shoulders tense automatically. Behind you, the mattress creaks.

“You okay?” Frank asks, voice rougher now.

“Yep.” You head toward the bathroom before he can ask anything else. Normally you’d already be halfway through six conversations by now. Complaining about coffee brands, talking about a weird article you read at midnight, jumping topics so fast Frank could barely keep up.

Now the apartment is quiet except for drawers opening and closing.

Frank does not like that. At all. By the time you make it downstairs, he’s already leaning against the kitchen counter watching you carefully over the rim of his coffee mug. You ignore him and move straight for the coffee maker.

“So,” he starts casually, “what’s got you glaring at appliances this morning?”

“Nothing.”

“Mhm.”

“It’s too early for commentary, Frank.”

“You know,” he says, following after you anyway, “most people say good morning first.”

“Most people aren’t employed by Satan’s law firm.” That earns a snort out of him.

“There she is.” You shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Try to cheer me up. It's not going to work.”

“I’m not cheerful. I’m charming.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Ouch.” You roll your eyes, stirring some milk and sugar into your coffee, not once looking up at Frank. His heart gives a sad tug, and he frowns, staring at the tension in your back. No matter how bad your day is going to be- because you always knew somehow- you were always chirpy and happy. Even when you knew that Louis was going to bother you, which you never mentioned to Frank but he knew - of course he knew- you were always bouncing around him, kissing his face, grabbing his hands and planting them at your waist because you physically couldn't bare to not be touching him.

And now you're standing six feet away, your breathing already heavy with irritation.

Frank watches you carefully over the rim of his mug. That alone is strange.

Usually mornings with you are chaos in the best way possible. You never stood still for longer than thirty seconds. You’d bounce around the apartment barefoot and half-awake, rambling from one topic to another before the coffee even finished brewing. One minute you’d be complaining about a judge from three years ago, the next you’d be talking about raccoons or asking him completely insane hypothetical questions while climbing into his lap. You were all warmth and movement and noise.

And now? You won’t even look at him. Frank lowers his coffee slowly.

“Well,” he says after a beat, “this is deeply unsettling.” You ignore him completely, spoon clinking against your mug as you stir in sugar. “No random facts this morning?” he continues. “No aggressively detailed story about a dream you barely remember?” Silence. “No threats against capitalism?” You grab your mug and brush past him toward the living room. Frank turns immediately to follow, trialing behind you like a child who's begging for candy. “You know,” he says conversationally behind you, “most people would consider this emotional neglect.” You drop onto the couch with a tired sigh.

“Frank.”

“What?”

“I am begging you to stop talking.”

“You’re begging dramatically. That’s improvement.” You glare at him. Frank grins and drops onto the couch beside you. Too close. His thigh presses against yours instantly, broad and warm. You scoot away without hesitation. He scoots closer. Your eye twitches.

“Frank.”

“Hm?”

“You are one more comment away from becoming a missing person.”

“Ooh. Baby's felin' violent today.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I. You’re scary.” You shoot him a flat look over your coffee. Usually this kind of teasing would’ve gotten you talking again immediately. Usually you’d already be climbing over him to smother his face with kisses while calling him annoying. But today every word feels like sandpaper against your skull. Frank notices.

Of course he does.

Still, instead of backing off like a reasonable person, he doubles down.

“So,” he says, nudging your knee with his, “which coworker are we fantasizing about killing today, mama ?” You exhale slowly through your nose.

“Louis.”

“Ah. Eyebrow guy.”

“The fact you call him that is not helping.” You roll your eyes and stand abruptly, carrying your mug back toward the kitchen. Frank follows immediately. The floor creaks heavily beneath his footsteps as he trails after you like an overgrown dog.

“Where are we going now?”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” you mutter. “I’m getting more coffee.”

“You’ve had three sips.”

“Andi just realised I need more because my usually stoic boyfriend is being an insufferable Chatty Cathy. ”

“Ouch." You slam the mug down beside the coffee pot harder than necessary. The sharp sound echoes through the kitchen. Frank leans against the counter beside you, arms folded loosely across his chest now, watching you move around with narrowed eyes. His teasing smile fades just slightly.

“You really okay?” he asks quietly. You busy yourself pouring coffee you don’t even really want.

“I’m fine.”

“That was the most fake sentence I’ve ever heard.” You sigh hard through your nose. Frank walks closer to you, looping his arms around your middle as he kisses his way up your neck. Warm. Slow. Deliberate. Usually that alone would’ve dissolved every bad mood instantly. Today it just makes your shoulders tense harder. Frank notices immediately. Still, the bastard keeps going.

“Mmm,” he hums against your skin, tightening his hold when you try to squirm away. “There’s my pretty girl.”

“Frank.”

“You smell good.”

“It’s body wash.”

“Still counts.” His nose nudges beneath your ear before he presses another kiss there, rough morning stubble scraping your skin just enough to make you shiver irritably. He catches that too. A smug smile ghosts against your neck.

“Oh, so we do still like me.” You try elbowing him lightly.

“I am actively trying not to.”

“Not working very well, mama.”

“I hate when you call me that before eight a.m.”

“That sounds like a challenge.” You groan quietly, setting your coffee spoon down harder than necessary. Frank only tightens his arms around your waist, swaying you slightly side to side where you stand between him and the counter. Like you’re dancing. Like you’re not one wrong sentence away from snapping at him again.

“You’re grumpy,” he murmurs.

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re cute when you’re mean to me.”

“Frank.” He laughs softly against your shoulder, completely unbothered. The sound rumbles through his chest into your back.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, kissing just below your jaw, “normally by now you’ve kissed me at least four times.”

“Tragic.”

“And called me handsome.”

“You’re surviving somehow.”

“And climbed on me while I made coffee.”

“That sounds unsafe.”

“Mhm. Still miss it though.” You close your eyes briefly. That little sad note in his voice almost gets you. Almost. Then he ruins it by squeezing your waist and dramatically sighing into your neck.

“My baby hates me.” Your jaw tightens.

“Frank.”

“She won’t talk to me.”

“Frank.”

“She won’t kiss me.” You shove back against his chest enough to turn in his arms, glaring up at him.

“You are being so unbelievably irritating on purpose.” Frank looks down at you with entirely too much amusement for someone currently in danger.

“I’m trying to cheer you up.”

“By acting like a middle schooler?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, reaching up to smooth a thumb over the wrinkle between your brows, “you’re still obsessed with me.” You swat his hand away instantly. He grins. “You know what your problem is?” he continues casually.

“That I’m dating you?”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest dramatically. “No, your problem is you’re too in your head.”

“My problem,” you mutter, turning back toward the coffee machine, “is that a six-foot-two man keeps talking directly into my ear before I’ve even had caffeine.”

“Six-three.”

“That’s not better.”

“It’s impressive though.” You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. Frank watches you pour more coffee you absolutely do not need, then rests his chin on your shoulder from behind.

“You wanna stay home with me instead?”

“No.”

“I’ll make pancakes.”

“You can’t make pancakes.”

“I can absolutely make pancakes.”

“You almost started a grease fire making eggs.”

“That pan was defective.” You snort despite yourself. Frank immediately perks up behind you.

“There she is.”

“Do not celebrate.” Too late. He’s already smiling against your shoulder like he personally dragged the sun back into the sky.

“You laughed at my suffering.”

“I laughed at your stupidity.”

“Still counts.” You try to step away again. Frank follows immediately. You move left. So does he. You spin around with a sharp glare.

“Why are you attached to me like a lost toddler today?” His expression softens for just a second beneath all the teasing.

“Because you’re sad.” The simple honesty of it knocks some air from your lungs. Your irritation flickers. Frank sees it happen in real time. Which means, naturally, he ruins it.

“Aaaaand because you’re extra cute when you’re angry.”

“Oh my god.” He grins lazily, leaning down until his forehead bumps yours.

“You gonna survive the big scary law office today?” You narrow your eyes.

“You’re about two seconds away from me filing for divorce and we aren’t even married.”

“Damn,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “Cold world.”

“You deserve it.” Then, because apparently peace was never an option, he reaches over and pokes your cheek. You freeze. Slowly turn your head.

“…Did you just poke me?”

“I'm checking you're real- because you're not acting like yourself.” You stare at him in disbelief.

“Frank.”

“What?”

“I am genuinely hanging on by a thread.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“Because you get all weird and stuck in your head when you’re upset.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like it.” The honesty of that should soften you. Unfortunately he ruins it immediately after. “You’re usually bouncing off walls by now. It’s creepy.” Your expression hardens instantly. Frank realizes his mistake about half a second too late.

“Oh,” he mutters. You laugh once under your breath. Not happy. “Wow.”

“What ? What did i say wrong ?” He mutters, frowning as he watches you dump your newly poured coffee down the sink and turn away from him, ready to walk down. “Right.” You run your fingers through your messy hair, shaking your head as you turn to leave- and Frank's hand settles on your arm.

“Baby—” He rasps, a frown forming between his eyebrows,

“No, it’s fine.” You shrug out of his grasp, scoffing. “Sorry I’m not entertaining enough today.” His brows pull together immediately. “

Jesus Christ, that’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you implied.”

“I implied you’re quiet!”

“Which apparently bothers you enough to keep poking at me nonstop.”

“Because every time I ask what’s wrong, you shut me down!”

“Because I don’t wanna talk!”

“Baby, i'm just worried !You never shut up in the mornings!” The second it leaves his mouth, silence drops hard between you.

Heavy.

Frank’s face shifts immediately into regret. Your chest twists painfully. You stare at him for a long second before stepping back like he physically shoved you.

“Wow,” you say quietly.

“Baby - ”

“No, seriously. Good to know. My long-term boyfriend thinks im an annoying chatterbox.”

“That is not what I meant and you know it.” You move past him, scratching at your forehead as you bite the inside of your cheek, shaking your head as you head for the stairs.

“I’m late for work. I should go get dressed." You hum, sighing shakily, Frank pushes off the counter instantly.

“Hey, c’mon.”

“No.”

“You’re twisting this.”

“And you’re being an asshole.” His expression flashes with irritation now too.

“I’m trying to make you feel better.”

“Well congratulations. You failed.” The words hit harder than you intend. Frank’s jaw tightens.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Go to work pissed off then.” You blink at him. For a second the apartment goes completely still. Then you let out a short laugh full of disbelief and hurt.

“Unbelievable.” You turn towards the stairs, storming upstairs chest heaving. You can hear Frank's footsteps thundering behind you - no doubt following you, but you slam the bedroom door closed and lock it before he can enter. You hear him hover by the door before he decides you're not going to open it whatever he does, and you hear him retreat down the stairs again.

The silence that follows feels awful. Not peaceful. Just awful. You stand there in the middle of the bedroom breathing hard, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. Your hair’s a mess. Your eyes look tired. Your chest still feels tight and hot with irritation. And underneath all of it sits guilt. Because you know Frank didn’t mean it like that.

But god. It still hurt.

You scrub both hands over your face with a groan before moving around the room to get dressed. Every motion feels sharper than usual—drawer opening too hard, hangers scraping too loud, closet doors shutting with too much force. Downstairs, the apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Usually Frank would still be following you around by now, shamelessly invading your space while you got ready. Sitting on the bathroom counter while you did your makeup. Tugging you into his lap while you tried to put your shoes on. Now there’s nothing. That almost irritates you more. By the time you finish dressing, your anger has curdled into something heavier. Exhaustion. Embarrassment. Regret. You grab your bag and unlock the bedroom door. The second you step into the hallway downstairs, you find Frank exactly where you expected. Leaning against the kitchen counter.

Waiting. His arms are folded across his chest, expression carefully neutral, but the second he sees you his eyes flick up immediately. For once, he doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t make some smartass comment. You move around him quietly to grab your keys from the counter.

Frank watches you the entire time. The tension between your shoulder blades tightens.

Finally, softly—

“Baby.” You close your eyes briefly.

“What?”

“I didn’t mean that.” You let out a quiet breath through your nose.

“I know.” His jaw shifts slightly like he wasn’t expecting you to answer that honestly. “But you still said it,” you add quietly. Frank’s expression pinches.

“I know.” Silence stretches again. Then, because apparently neither of you knows how to stop picking at bruises, he mutters, “You know I love hearing you talk.” You snort humorlessly while shoving your laptop into your bag.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“C’mon.”

“No, seriously.” You finally look at him properly. “You made it sound like I’m annoying.” Frank pushes off the counter instantly.

“You are annoying.” You stare at him flatly. He points toward you immediately.

“See? That face right there. That’s why I should think before I speak.”

“Frank.”

“I’m serious.” He runs a hand down his face tiredly. “Baby, I love that you talk. I love that you bounce around like your brain’s got fifteen tabs open all the time.” His mouth twitches faintly. “I know more about nineteenth-century shipwrecks than any sane man should because of you.” You roll your eyes, shaking your head. He follows close behind while you head toward the front door.

“C’mon,” he says, reaching for your waist automatically. “Don’t go to work mad at me.”

“You told me to.”

“I was being dramatic.”

“You told me to go to work pissed off.”

“You were pissed off.”

“I’m still pissed off.”

“Yeah, but now I’m involved.” You shove his hand away weakly when he tries pulling you closer. You turn for the door before he can say anything else. Your heartbeat pounds loud in your ears while you shove your shoes on aggressively near the entryway. Behind you, Frank exhales heavily. The irritation drains from him almost immediately.

“Baby.” You ignore him. “Hey.” Large warm fingers wrap around your wrist before you can reach the doorknob. You finally turn around. And there it is. Frank has the kind of face that was probably dangerous long before he realized it. Big body. Rough edges. Crooked nose that’s been broken at least once. Permanent stubble shadowing his jaw. The sort of man people move out of the way for without thinking twice. And then he looks at you.

That’s the problem. Because Frank’s eyes completely betray the rest of him. They’re warm brown, dark around the edges and soft in the center, framed by stupidly thick lashes that make no sense on a man built like him. Usually they’re heavy-lidded with amusement, always carrying that lazy little spark like he’s privately entertained by everything you do.

But when he wants something? God. His whole face changes. His eyebrows pull upward just slightly - not exaggerated enough to look fake, just enough to make him seem unfairly earnest. His mouth softens at the corners, lips parting the tiniest bit like he’s about to say something sweet. And his eyes get so open and warm and impossibly gentle that it physically hurts to stay annoyed at him. It’s worse because half the time he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Frank naturally looks at you like you’re something precious. Like he’s hopeful every time you glance his way. Like your attention is still his favorite thing in the world. And when he’s apologizing - or pretending to apologize, which is somehow even more dangerous- he tilts his head slightly and looks at you from under those lashes with this quiet, wounded softness that usually melts you instantly. Usually you cave within seconds.Usually you’re already grabbing his face and muttering,

“You’re so annoying,” while kissing him anyway. Because the contrast is unbearable. A man who looks like Frank Castle should not have eyes that sweet. Should not look at you like an oversized rescue dog desperate to be let back onto the couch after chewing a pillow apart. And the worst part? He knows exactly what those eyes do to you.

Not consciously at first. But over time he learned. Learned that one soft look could pull you out of almost any mood. Learned that if he wrapped those giant arms around your waist and gave you that quiet little pout, you’d start smiling no matter how hard you tried not to.

Complete bullshit.

“Baby, I’m sorry.” He hums. You narrow your eyes instantly because you can literally see him trying not to smile.

“You don’t mean that at all.”

“I do.”

“You are actively amused right now.” His mouth twitches. “Frank.”

“What? I’m apologizing.”

“You’re mocking me while apologizing.”

“I can multitask.” You yank your hand free with a sharp glare. Usually this is where you’d kiss him anyway. Even after arguments. Especially after arguments. You’d grab his face dramatically and complain into his mouth while he laughed against your lips. But right now your chest still aches with humiliation and exhaustion and anger. And Frank is still looking at you like this is somehow cute. You back towards the door, shaking your head in disbelief. Frank shakes his head, grinning.

"Sweetheart, c'mon. I am sorry." He says. You open the door without another word. Frank walks forward, and leans against the door frame with his arm up, looking down at you. His hand reaches out to grab your waist, to pull you froward to kiss you goodbye.

You always kiss him goodbye.

You step away from him, and start to close the door. Frank’s smile falters instantly.

“Wait - baby - ” The door shuts before he can finish.

Not slammed. Just closed. Which somehow feels worse. For a second Frank just stands there in the hallway staring at the wood in front of him, one hand still braced against the frame where your waist had been a second ago. The apartment is suddenly too quiet.

No quick little goodbye. No absentminded kiss pressed to his jaw while you muttered about traffic. No fingers curling into the front of his shirt while you stole “one more” kiss before leaving.

Nothing.

Frank exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as he straightens.

“…Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. Because that actually hurt. More than he expected it to. You always kiss him goodbye.

Always. Even after arguments. Especially after arguments - but you always kissed him. And now all he can picture is the look on your face when he said you never shut up in the mornings.

Christ.

Frank drags a hand over his mouth, already regretting half the shit that came out of it. He didn’t mean it like that.

He just -He hated seeing you so closed off.

Hated seeing you hurting and not knowing how to fix it. And somehow he’d turned it into this instead. Outside, you lean back against the apartment door for a second after it closes. Your chest aches. You hate this. You hate leaving angry. You hate that Frank managed to make you laugh twice this morning despite everything. You hate that his stupid puppy eyes almost worked again. And you especially hate that the last thing you saw before closing the door was the exact moment his expression stopped being playful. Because he looked genuinely thrown. Like he really didn’t expect you to leave without kissing him.

Your fingers tighten around your keys. Part of you wants to turn around already. March back upstairs. Grab his stupid face. Tell him he’s irritating and kiss him anyway. But then you remember Louis. Remember the exhaustion sitting in your bones before you even opened your eyes this morning. Remember Frank laughing while you were trying not to fall apart. So instead, you push away from the door and head toward your car.

---------

You're shaking by the time you stumble out of your office. Your shoulders are shaking as you try to keep desperate little sobs at bay, shaking your head. Your hands are trembling as you fumble with your car keys, swearing under your breath as you drop them on the sidewalk.

The bustling streets of Hell's Kitchen seem fuller that usual, and people throw you pitying glances as they walk by.

God, today couldn't have gone worse.

It started bad and somehow kept finding new ways to humiliate you.

Louis had spent the entire morning hovering around your desk with that smug little smirk carved into his face, making snide comments just quiet enough that nobody else could hear them clearly.

“Careful,” he’d murmured when you dropped a file folder after your third straight hour without a break. “Wouldn’t wanna prove everybody right.” Then the eyebrow wiggle. That fucking eyebrow wiggle. And when Landman reassigned your case halfway through the afternoon?

Handed it to Louis after you had spent two weeks building it from scratch?

You thought you were going to be sick.

“Don’t take it personally,” Landman had said without even looking up from his paperwork. “Louis just has a stronger courtroom presence.” Courtroom presence. You’d smiled so tightly your jaw still hurt from it. Then Louis leaned against the doorway afterward with his arms folded and said,

“Maybe litigation just isn’t your thing, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. You’d spent seven years clawing your way through school and internships and firms filled with men who talked over you like your law degree came from a cereal box. And somehow that one stupid comment had finally cracked something open inside your chest. By the end of the day you could barely breathe around it. Now you’re fumbling on the sidewalk outside the office building, vision blurry with tears you’re trying desperately not to let fall. Your keys slip again from your shaking hands and clatter against the concrete.

“Fuck,” you whisper brokenly. A couple walking past glance over sympathetically before quickly looking away again. Humiliation burns hotter instantly. You crouch down too fast to grab your keys, nearly dropping them again because your fingers won’t stop trembling. You can’t do this. You cannot have a breakdown on a fucking sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen.

Your chest jerks with another strangled inhale. The city around you feels too loud. Car horns. Sirens somewhere far off. Too many people brushing past your shoulder without seeing you. Your phone buzzes in your bag. You ignore it. It buzzes again immediately after. And again. Swallowing hard, you wipe furiously at your face before yanking it out.

Your throat tightens painfully.

Three missed calls.

A text underneath.

FRANKIE baby please talk to me

Another.

FRANKIE i'm sorry about what i said, i just wanted to cheer you up please pick up.

And then, sent only two minutes ago—

FRANKIE i made pancakes they look like shit but the effort was there

A watery laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Which only makes you cry harder.

“God,” you choke out, pressing the heel of your hand against your eyes. Your phone starts ringing again in your hand.

Frank.

Of course it’s Frank.

You stare at his contact picture through blurry vision for a long second before answering shakily and lifting the phone to your ear.

“Hey baby - ” The second he hears you crying, he goes dead silent. All warmth drains from his voice instantly.

“What the fuck happened ? ” That’s all it takes. Everything you spent all day holding together collapses immediately. You make this awful broken sound in the back of your throat and suddenly you can’t stop crying at all. On the other end of the line, Frank’s breathing changes sharply.

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart.” His voice drops low and steady immediately, all teasing gone. “Talk to me.” You press your hand over your mouth trying to muffle the sob that escapes.

"Can-Can you - Can you come pick me up ?" You sob, shaking your head, ashamed of how shamelessly you're coming crawling back to him after you categorically refused to forgive for a stupid joke this morning.

"You took the car ?" He asks, his voice soft as you hear him move around. You nod, even though he can't see you.

"Uh- Yeah. Yeah. I just- fuck- I don't want to be alone right now, and everyone's looking at me like i'm crazy-" There’s a sharp inhale on Frank’s end.

“Okay,” he says immediately, voice switching - no panic, just focus. "Breathe, baby. Don’t move, alright? Don’t you dare try to drive.”

“I’m not - I’m not going anywhere,” you manage, voice breaking on the last word.

“Good,” he repeats, firmer now. “Stay right there. I’m coming.” Your throat tightens.

“Frank - ”

“I’m on my way,” he says again, like it’s not up for debate. And then, softer -just enough to catch you off guard - “Breathe for me, yeah?” You nod even though he can’t see it.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll be there soon.” The line clicks. Gone. Just like that. The silence that follows feels heavier than before, but not empty anymore. It feels… held. You stay where you are anyway, leaning against the car, phone still in your hand like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored. Minutes pass in uneven pieces. You don’t even notice Frank arriving at first. Only the sudden shadow. The shift in air. Then him. Frank doesn’t say anything when he sees you. No teasing. No questions. Just stillness for half a second like he’s making sure you’re real and in one piece.

Then he’s there. Right in front of you.

“Hey,” he says quietly. You look up at him through wet lashes. That’s all it takes. His eyes, god his fucking eyes make you melt. You surge forward and wrap your arms around his neck. He crouches down, inhaling your scent as he presses you into his body. You sniffle against his shoulder, sighing heavily. "Hi, baby." He sighs, kissing your forehead. For a second, neither of you moves. The city keeps going around you- footsteps, traffic, distant sirens - but it feels far away, like it’s happening to someone else. Frank shifts slightly, one arm tightening around your shoulders while the other slides down your back, anchoring you completely.

“You’re freezing,” he mutters.

“I’m fine,” you lie automatically. Frank huffs a quiet, humorless sound.

“Yeah, okay.” Not dismissive. Just unconvinced. He pulls back just enough to look at your face, his hand immediately coming up to wipe under your eyes with his thumb. You hate how gentle he is.

How careful.

Like you’re something breakable he refuses to drop.

“Look at me,” he says softly. You do. And there it is again. That expression.

Not the teasing one from this morning. Not the amused one that gets him into trouble. This one is steady. Focused. Warm in a way that makes your throat tighten all over again. Frank tilts his head slightly, scanning your face like he’s checking for damage he can fix with his hands alone. His jaw ticks.

"Where the fuck is he ?" He asks, his gaze darkening. He turns towards the building, hands still on your face, eyes scanning the facade like he's back in afghanistan and assessing an enemy camp.

The shift is almost instant. The second your head shakes, Frank’s attention snaps back to you - but it’s already too late for the look that crossed his face. That dark, focused edge settles in behind his eyes like a switch flipping.

You feel it more than see it.

“Frank - ” you start again, voice unsteady. His hands are still on your face, but now they’re gentler in a different way - like he’s trying to keep himself anchored to you.

“I’m going to beat that meathead into the ground,” he says flatly, eyes flicking back toward the building again, scanning it like he’s mapping exits and threats, “if he thinks he can make you cry and get away with it.”

“Frank,” you repeat, sharper this time. That finally breaks through a little. Not all the way - but enough. His gaze snaps back to you.

“…What?” he mutters, still tense. You let out a shaky breath, reaching up and grabbing his wrists so he actually stays with you.

“Please- can you just- Take me home ?" You hiccup. The words land differently. Frank stops immediately. Not slowly. Not reluctantly.

Just… stops.

Like something in him re-centers the second your voice cracks the way it does. His grip on your face softens, then shifts - his hands sliding down to your cheeks again, thumbs brushing lightly beneath your eyes like he’s recalibrating himself back to you.

“Yeah,” he says instantly. “Yeah, okay.” No argument. No lingering anger. Just agreement. You swallow hard, still shaking, still trying not to fall apart in public.

Frank notices everything.

Of course he does. His gaze flicks once more toward the building behind you—brief, controlled now instead of sharp. Then back to you.

Gone.

Whatever he was about to do with that anger gets put away somewhere else. Not erased. Just shelved. For later. He exhales slowly through his nose.

“C'mon, pretty girl,” he murmurs. You nod weakly, fingers curling into his jacket like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. Frank doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t speak again right away, just gently shifts you with him toward the car. One hand stays at your back the entire time.Steady pressure.

Constant reminder.

I’ve got you.

When he opens the passenger door, he guides you in carefully, like you’re not something fragile - but something worth protecting anyway.

“Careful of your head,” he murmurs when you slump a little too fast into the seat. You obey without thinking. Frank shuts the door softly. Not once does he look back at the building. When he gets in, the first thing he does is reach over. His hand finds your thigh again.

Warm.

Grounding. The feeling makes tears fling up into your eyes.

God, you were so mean to him- and just one simple call and he came running to you. Your heart gives a guilty tug and you look away, head in your hand, staring outside the window as New York flashes by.

Frank glances at you every so often. Not constantly. Not pressuring.

Just… checking.

Watching your breathing. Your posture. The way your shoulders slowly stop being so tight. And every time his hand squeezes your thigh gently, it’s like he’s reminding you without words: I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re okay.

He doesn’t try to make you talk. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t fill the silence just to fix it. Just drives. When you get home, Frank’s the first one out of the car. He opens your door immediately. You move like you’re exhausted in your bones. Frank notices.

Of course he does.

Before you even reach for your bag, he’s already shaking his head.

“Nope,” he says quietly. You blink at him.

“Frank—”

“Don’t argue.” Then he reaches in and takes your bag off your shoulder anyway. And your laptop. And your coat.

All of it.

“Frank, I can—”

“You can walk,” he says simply, like that’s the only job you’ve been assigned today. "I'll carry your stuff. C'mon." he says, nodding to the door. You don’t fight him. You don’t have it in you. So you just follow him up the steps. Inside the apartment, Frank holds the door open with his foot, still carrying everything, then ushers you in first like it matters. The second the door shuts, the quiet changes again.

Home quiet. Not outside noise anymore. Frank sets your things down carefully on the counter - like they matter, but not as much as you do - and turns back to you. You’re still standing there like you’re not sure what to do with yourself. Your arms wrap around yourself. Frank moves around the apartment, grabbing a cup and filling it with water.

"I'm gonna run you a bath," He hums, "Add in those little essential oils you like with those bath bombs karen got you for your birthday. I wanna make sure you relax and-"

A sob tears out of you before you can stop it.

Frank spins around, holding the cup of water he clearly was making for you.

"Baby ?" He mutters, taking a step towards you as he puts the cup down. You choke on a sob, softly looking away from him. "Hey- hey- Talk to me, mama."

God he's being so soft.

You don't deserve that softness- you were so mean this morning.

You run your hands down your face, shaking your head.

"I'm the worst girlfriend ever." You sob, looking up at him as you dig your teeth into your bottom lip. "God, i'm so sorry, Frank." Frank doesn’t even wait for you to finish. The second the words “I’m the worst girlfriend ever” leave your mouth, something in him just… shifts. Like a switch flipping from steady concern straight into full softness.

“Baby,” he says immediately again, but this time it’s quieter—almost breathless. And then he’s moving. Fast. Not frantic, not panicked—just decisive. His cup is forgotten on the counter. His body is in front of you in two steps.

"I was such a bitch this morning, i mean, you were just trying to help-"

“Hey - hey, c’mere,” he murmurs at the same time your voice breaks again. Your hands are still half-covering your face when Frank gently pries them away- not forcing, just coaxing 0 so he can see you properly. And the moment he sees the tears still coming, his whole expression melts.

“Oh baby,” he says, voice dropping instantly into something softer than before. Both hands come up right away. Not hesitating. Not thinking.Just you. He cups your face like it’s instinct, thumbs sweeping under your eyes before another tear can even fall past them. You shake your head anyway, words tumbling out between broken breaths.

“I was so mean to you I didn’t even - I didn’t - I should’ve - ”

“Shh,” Frank cuts in immediately. “You’re not the worst anything,” he says plainly. You let out a broken laugh that immediately turns into another sob.

“That’s not—Frank, I—”

“Stop it,” he cuts in gently, thumb brushing under your eye like it’s instinct at this point. He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully - not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he’s trying to make sure you actually hear him. “You were having a shit morning,” he says. “I was being an idiot.” You shake your head again, but weaker now. “I said the wrong thing,” he continues, voice lower, steady. “And you got hurt. That’s it.” Your throat tightens painfully.

“That’s not it,” you whisper. “I was mean." Frank’s mouth twitches slightly - almost like he’s frustrated with how hard you’re being on yourself.

“Yeah,” he agrees honestly. “You were.” You flinch a little at that, but he doesn’t let you drift. Then he adds, immediately: “So was I.” That makes you pause. Frank watches you closely, waiting for it to land.

“I pushed you,” he says. “I kept poking at you when you clearly weren’t okay. That’s on me.” Your breathing stutters. His hands slide from your cheeks to your shoulders, grounding you there again. “And I’m the one who should’ve stopped earlier,” he continues, quieter now. “Not you.”

A beat. Then softer -

“I don’t need you to be perfect with me, alright?” Your eyes close briefly. That does something dangerous to your chest. Frank leans forward just a little, forehead almost brushing yours. “But I do need you here,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re pissed. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re…” his mouth tilts faintly, “…being scary silent and judging me from across the room.” Not sharp. Just urgent. Like he can feel you spiraling and won’t let it get further than this moment. His hands slide from your face down to your arms, then back up again—like he physically can’t decide where to hold you because he needs you everywhere at once.

“Hey,” he says again, softer. “Look at me.” You try. You really do. But you’re shaking too hard. So Frank adjusts instantly. He steps in closer and pulls you right into him instead. No hesitation now at all. Your forehead ends up against his chest, and one of his arms wraps fully around your shoulders while the other hand cradles the back of your head like he’s shielding you from the entire world. You let out a choked sob against him.

“I didn’t mean to be like that,” you whisper. “I just— I was so overwhelmed and I took it out on you and you still— you still came and I—” Frank makes a low, disapproving sound—not at you, but at the idea of you hurting like this.

“Yeah,” he says gently. “Because I love you.” That hits you harder. Your grip on his shirt tightens instantly. Frank notices, of course. He tightens his hold in response, like it’s automatic. “And I’m not letting you stand there beating yourself up,” he continues, voice still soft but firmer underneath. “Not happening.” One hand moves slowly down your back in steady strokes.

Up.

Down.

Grounding.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just breathe with me, yeah?” You try. It comes out shaky, uneven—but Frank doesn’t correct you. Just stays right there. Completely locked around you like he’s decided the rest of the world can wait. After a moment, you whisper again, smaller this time.

“I’m sorry.” Frank sighs through his nose, almost like he expected it. Then he tilts his head slightly, pressing a quick kiss into your hair without moving you away from him.

“Stop apologising,” he says quietly. You sniffle.

“I mean it.”

“So do I,” he replies immediately. A beat. Then, softer—almost a mutter into your hair: “You think I’m mad at you right now?” You don’t answer. Frank leans back just enough to look at your face again—still holding you, still refusing to let go. His expression is completely open now. Warm. A little tired. But so soft it almost hurts. "God, baby, i'm not mad." He hum, kissing your red nose as you sniffle. "I could never be mad at you."

"You were mad this morning." You sniffle.

"I was mad for a total of two minutes. And then you left and all I wanted was to chase after you- but i know you'd probably slap me if I tried." He says. You chuckle, shaking your head as he pulls you into him again, clearly craving to have you close in this moment. His lips press to your forehead, and his hand softly wrap around your jaw and pushes you backwards, taking in your face. He runs his thumb along your cheekbone, kissing the side of your mouth before softly pressing his lips onto yours. The kiss starts soft, almost tentative—like Frank is afraid you might still push him away. His lips brush yours once, twice, testing the waters before he presses more firmly. The rough stubble along his jaw scrapes your skin just enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your fingers, which had been clenched into fists at your sides, slowly uncurl. One hand finds its way to his chest, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt while the other slides up to cup the back of his neck. The movement feels natural—automatic—like your body remembers what your mind had been trying to forget all day. Frank’s hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against him. There is nothing hurried about it, nothing desperate. Just a slow, deepening connection that makes your chest ache with something other than pain for the first time all day. His tongue traces your lower lip, and you open to him without hesitation. The world outside the apartment fades away—the sounds of traffic, the memory of Louis’s smug face, the weight of your laptop bag still sitting by the door. All that matters is the steady warmth of Frank’s body against yours, the way his thumbs stroke circles on your hips, the low hum that vibrates in his chest when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily. Frank rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed like he is memorizing the moment.

“Still think i'm mad at you?” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. You manage a weak smile.

“No.” His lips curve into a ghost of a grin.

“Good.” Then he kisses your forehead again—shorter this time, but somehow more intense. A promise. An apology. A reminder that even on your worst days, you aren’t alone. He sighs, looking at you.

"Now- go get dressed into something comfy. I'll make you some dinner and then draw you a bath." You nod, pulling away from him as you tuck your hair behind your ears. You turn away from him, when-

"Baby ?"

You turn to face him.

"Hm ?" You hum. He smiles.

"I thought you said you wouldn't leave without giving me a goodbye kiss." His grin is stupidly teasing, and your heart gives a pathetic tug. You stop. Not because you want to. Because your brain very clearly files that request under trap. Frank is still standing there in the hallway like he’s done nothing wrong in his entire life. Hands loose at his sides, posture casual, expression mild— Except for his eyes. Of course it’s the eyes again.

Soft. Patient. Slightly tilted up like he’s waiting for you to decide something he already knows the answer to. Not even pushy. Just… there. God. It’s not even dramatic. It’s not some exaggerated pout or obvious attempt to guilt you. It’s worse. It’s just Frank looking at you like you’re the best part of his day and he doesn’t fully understand why you’d walk away from that. You scoff.

"You're impossible."

"Impossibly in love with you, yeah." You smile despite yourself.

"Fine. I'll put goodbye kisses to frank on my daily to-do list from now on." Frank actually laughs at that - properly this time, warm and low, like it’s been waiting under everything else all morning.

“Good,” he says immediately, nodding like you’ve just agreed to a very serious contract. “Put it in writing. I like structure. Now come here and kiss e before you vanish into our room for twenty mminutes.”

“You’re ridiculous -I just kissed you.”

“And yet,” he steps closer again, slower this time, like he’s not rushing you anymore, just… hoping, “You still owe me another one.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it anymore. Just tired fondness trying to fight its way back to the surface. Frank watches you for a second longer, then tilts his head slightly. That look comes back. Not loud. Not performative. Just soft in a way that’s almost unfair—like he’s quietly asking for something he already knows he’ll get if you stop pretending you’re still angry.

“You’ve got time,” he says gently. “Just one.” You huff a small breath through your nose.

“Frank…” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Just stands there looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. And that’s the problem. Because he always does that. Even when you’re annoyed. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when you’re trying very hard not to soften. His mouth quirks slightly.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me beg.”

“You’re not begging.”

“I could be worse at it.” That almost gets you again. Almost. You shake your head like it’ll physically clear the feeling out of your chest, but your feet are already moving before you’ve decided anything properly. Frank sees it immediately.

Of course he does.

His expression changes—just a flicker, just enough warmth breaking through the tiredness—as you step into him. You stop right in front of him.

A pause.

He doesn’t touch you first this time. Lets you choose it. That alone undoes you a little. So you grab the front of his shirt, yanking him down just enough to meet you halfway, and press a quick kiss to his mouth. It’s not long. Not dramatic. Just enough to shut him up and fix something inside your chest you didn’t want to admit was still broken from this morning. When you pull back, Frank doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, forehead almost dipping toward yours again, like he’s trying not to chase you for a second kiss and failing spectacularly at pretending he’s not. Then he exhales—quiet, satisfied. Frank’s eyes flick over your face like he’s storing the moment away somewhere safe.

"Okay, pretty girl, you can go now." You roll your eyes, slapping his chest as you step away from him, shaking your head.